Sae, as we mairch alang, man,
We’ll hae twa extry pólicemen
Tae clear awa’ the thrang, man.
An’ then at nicht—why, ilka ane
Has emptied oot his pockets,
An’ mony a guid bawbee has gaen
In crackers, squibs an’ rockets.
Eh, but I’d tak’ my aith on this—
The King’ll be gey sweer, man,
Tae bide at hame the morn an’ miss